The Other
by Crystalwren
Summary: It is through our relationships that we revel ourselves. A series of eight vignettes and drabbles centred around Gunter, each with a different pairing. Non graphic m/m, m/f, noncon, cross dressing and bondage. Giggity giggity.
1. The Decision

Gisela

When he first saw her he thought she was both the prettiest and the most pitiful sight he'd ever seen. The prettiest, with stunning emerald eyes to match her hair, baby soft skin and a delicate little mouth. The most pitiful, because her hair was tangled, her skin smeared with dirt and great tears trembled in her eyes.

A plague had wiped out most of her village. The healers had managed to stop the infection from spreading, but not before many died. Her parents had been among the victims, minor lordlings scarcely richer than the common people they supposedly ruled. He had come to see what needed to be done for the survivors, who had lost first their family to the plague and then their meagre possessions to the fires built to purify the contamination. For the most part they sat, silent and unblinking in a profound state of shock that would likely never leave for the rest of their lives.

She was different.

Scarcely out of nappies, that little girl with her wild hair, lonely and angry. He'd been so moved by her tears that he had picked her up to comfort her. She had responded to this kindness by sinking her sharp little milk teeth into his arm. A bucket of freezing water was needed to make her let go.

The resulting wail was ear splitting. He seriously considered giving her back to the healers and letting them deal with her but when huge sobs began to rack her little body, he was astonished to find himself feeling guilty, as though she were the wronged party, not him. So he fetched a towel and set her on his knee, dried her hair and sang fragments of lullabies from the childhood he could barely remember. When he put her down and stood up, she had seized handfuls of his trousers and gripped very tightly. He picked her up again, held her in his arms and carried her with him for the rest of the day.

Strictly speaking, she adopted him and not the other way around. He only signed the papers. The decision was hers.


	2. The Friend

They've slept together precisely three times and always because of loneliness and a need for comfort, never out of pure desire.

The first time they did it they barely knew each other. It was just after Gwendal's father had died and Celi was travelling around her kingdom, babe in arms, surrounded by attendants and servants and advisors and lackeys and she had never felt so lonely in all her life. At court in the von Christ province he'd blundered into her life, quite by accident, tripping over his own feet and almost diving headlong into her lap. It was the first time in months that she'd laughed. She'd sat him next to her and talked to him for hours. He was brilliant, if naive, and so terribly young. Later that night they had sex and it was sweet and clumsy and he was inexperienced and it was over too soon and when they'd finished he held her while she cried. When she finished crying she told him that he'd be even more beautiful if his hair was long.

The second time was many decades later. During the time in between they'd become friends. She had married Dan Hiri and had Conrart and he had adopted Gisela. Such a tiny, fragile little girl, all skinned knees and flying green curls. She managed to catch every childhood ailment it was possible to catch until finally, she caught a raging fever that refused to leave. When the healer told him that his daughter might not make it through the night his mouth thinned and his eyes opened very wide, but he did not cry.

She went to him as he paced up and down and he grabbed her with rough hands and pushed her down onto the floor. Again it was over too soon and he pressed his face to her breasts and shuddered until the healer rapped on the door, come to tell him that Gisela's fever had finally broken.

The third time came when Conrart went to war and they both hurt, they both grieved and they did it slowly, with infinite tenderness and a satisfying skill. If he blamed her for the war he gave no sign. They held each other all night. They didn't talk much.

Every now and again they look at each other and there's a hint, a suggestion of flirtation hanging in the air between them. And they'll smile at each other and quietly, privately, dread the next time they will sleep together.


	3. The Gag

Conrart's stubble was rough, abrasive. Not unpleasantly so, just unfamiliar.

Günter couldn't grow a beard. The men from his province generally couldn't. The few that could produced wispy, fine little things that were hardly beards at all, and Conrart's stubble was an interesting novelty, even if Günter was certain he'd be left with a bright red rash when all this was over.

Another thing that was unfamiliar was the sense of being pinned, of helplessness, because even though their heights were similar, Conrart had muscle weight and Günter could not shift him. The half-demon was also good with his tongue, lips, mouth in general; it was difficult for Günter to concentrate.

Conrart had come prepared. Günter had been taken by surprise. And now Günter was stark naked and tied to his bed with a half-demon on top of him. It wasn't all that bad. It was actually quite good.

He wondered if the gag was strictly necessary, though.


	4. The King

The young king took off his glasses, and Günter fell headlong into golden eyes.

"You're very handsome," Saralegui told him as he sank helplessly to his knees. "Not as handsome as me, of course," the king continued with a giggle, "But handsome all the same."

Günter's limbs were leaden weights. He couldn't lift them.

"Pretty hair," Saralegui crooned, "Pretty hair." He seized a handful of Günter's silver hair and tugged hard. "Long hair is very beautiful is it not? I'm very proud of mine."

Golden hair fell across Günter's face as Saralegui pressed his mouth against Günter's slack one. Günter wanted to scream, wanted to weep. A king, a young king, but the wrong king entirely. Saralegui's nimble tongue flicked against Günter's teeth and got no response. Günter had never felt so helpless in all his life.

"Pretty," Saralegui hissed, "So pretty."

The weight on Günter's shoulders intensified and he bent forward, forward, his forearms against the ground. With the last of his strength he forced his head up. He met Saralegui's golden eyes and the young king smiled.

"Perfect. Just the way I wanted you," and he lifted the bottom of his shirt.


	5. The Ribbon

"You've changed the colour of your hair ribbon," Günter remarked, leaning over for a closer look. Gwendal grunted, dipped his quill in the ink and signed the document with a flourish. "It looks good, but it isn't the colour I would have picked for you."

Plucking another document from the pile, Gwendal ignored Günter completely.

"Dark blue, I think, to match your eyes..."

There was a thud as Gwendal grabbed a heavy book from the shelf behind him and slammed it down on the desk.

"Or maybe pale blue for contrast."

Scowling furiously, Gwendal hunched down and glowered at the pages in front of him.

"Bright red would be too shocking. Perhaps a darker shade? Maybe more of a purple kind of red?"

Gwendal rolled his eyes to the sky.

"Pale violet is a nice colour, I suppose, it makes a nice ribbon but it doesn't go well with your hair. Why did you wear it today?"

Gwendal's mouth moved; someone who knew him well would realise that he was counting to ten in an effort to remain calm.

"Pale violet also clashes with your greatcoat," Günter advised, apparently oblivious. Gwendal snapped.

"_It matches your eyes!" _

There was a long silence. They shared an equally long look and Günter carefully backed away until he collided with the door. Slender fingers groped for the handle and Gwendal snarled. "You damned coward," he spat, "Always chasing after that damned _child, _but I'll bet the first whiff of a relationship with _him _will see you running just as hard as you do from me. You're pathetic. You are utterly pathetic and incapable of a functioning adult relationship." He stopped, breathing hard. His face was flushed bright red; Günter's was a white as a ghost. "Why can't you...why can't we...?"

Günter turned away. He opened the door and shut it quietly behind him. The latch clicked and Gwendal threw the book at the wall. He tugged the ribbon from his hair and pressed it to his lips.


	6. The Rival

Günter sometimes thought that he was the only one in the world not in love with Susanna Julia.

He poured the tea and sat back, a pleasant expression on his face even though she couldn't see it. He didn't actually dislike the woman; in truth he quite respected her. He just didn't see what everyone else went into raptures about.

"Lord von Christ," she said, "Thank you for coming to see me."

He smiled politely. "Not at all," he said. "I was very pleased to receive your invitation."

Julia inclined her head and smiled that sweet, slightly vacant smile of hers. Günter sipped his tea and waited.

"I wanted to talk to you about Gisela."

Obviously. Günter held himself very still, knowing that the least movement would catch her attention. "I figured as much." He set the cup back in its saucer. "I'm concerned for her," he admitted, "She doesn't seem to be doing as well as I'd hoped. Perhaps some extra tutoring-"

"Lord von Christ," Julia cut across with a steely note in her voice, "When you sent her to be my apprentice, you agreed that I would be the one who guides her education. Whilst you are a fine teacher-" he tried to interject but she ignored him entirely, "-You are not a healer, and what's more, you are her father. Your emotions cloud your judgement."

Scowling ferociously, he put the cup and saucer back on the table with a rattle of fine china. "I'm not certain what it is you're trying to say."

"Gisela does not need extra tutoring. What she does need is for you to stop pressuring her and lower your expectations to a reasonable level."

"I beg your pardon," he said coldly, "But I do not pressure my daughter."

"I beg your pardon, but you do."

There was a long silence, in which Günter discovered that trying to stare down a blind woman only results in watering eyes.

"Lady Julia, I resent your implication that my daughter lacks talent."

"I never said she lacked talent," Julia replied serenely, "She has that, and marvellous compassion besides. What she lacks is the brilliance you expect to find in her. Gisela will be a fine and wise healer. But that wisdom will come from hard work over many years. She will not have the stamina or the strength to become this fine and wise healer if she burns herself out trying to reach expectations that are unrealistic. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," he said through his teeth, and stood up. "Is that all?"

"That is all," she replied, also standing. "Please remember that she is not your blood. You cannot expect her to have your brilliance."  


He nodded curtly at her, not caring that she could not see it. He stalked over to the door and opened it. Gisela had been waiting patiently on a seat in the hall and she rose to greet him, that beautiful smile on her face. Günter looked at her, at the newly risen curves of breasts and hips, at the way her eyes slid past his and filled with an adoration and hero worship that, up until now, had only ever been directed at him. Günter von Christ could not shake the feeling that she was growing up, and that he was losing her.


	7. The Game

She likes him to pose in his underwear. She also likes it when he poses in her underwear. Attempts to fit him into her dresses have never succeeded because he is far too broad across the shoulders, not that it stops her from trying. Try anything twice, she always says, once to see if it works and once to be certain.

Sketching, she calls it, and her draftsmanship is reasonable enough so that it isn't entirely a lie. Rouge bloodying his mouth, flowers in his hair, he drapes himself where she tells him to and arranges his limbs the way she wants him to. He suspects that she dyed her bed sheets charcoal grey purely because she likes the way his hair contrasts against it, silver against all that darkness, but of course she vehemently denies it. She also tells him that the delicate little chains and soft leather straps that she uses to tie him up are purely for compositional purposes only. He doesn't believe that either.

It's a game, of course, a game between two powerful people, each one as crazy as the other. She pretends that she's in control and he pretends that he's in her power. He could flatten her precious laboratory with a flick of his hand but there's something deeply thrilling about this brilliant, erratic woman strapping him down and torturing him that strokes an intensely masochistic streak that he didn't realise that he had. So he screams and thrashes, puts on a performance because he knows that if he stirs her enough she'll ask him to come to her room that night.

It's a fascinating exercise, what happens when he poses for her. While she's watching him he's watching her and the struggle within her, the battle between her will and her desire could surely raise mountains and flatten them again. He never gets tired of it, of wondering who the winner will be. Most of the time it's her will, the source of her immense and brilliant strength and then she puts down her sketchbook, hands him back his clothes smeared with charcoal from her fingertips.

And sometimes, just sometimes, it is desire that comes out best and she throws aside her sketchbook and pretence and her garments along with them. She pushes him down. That delicious strength of hers and her nails carve bloody tracks in his shoulders as she rides him with a complete and utter lack of grace. And yes, she is a screamer.

A victory of sorts, he supposes, but that's not really the point. The point is that she fulfils his masochism and he gives her both the opportunity to exercise her power and the opportunity to throw it away. He won't deny that she terrifies him as much as she fascinates him. She won't admit that sometimes, her machines are designed to fail. It's a strange relationship, but it satisfies them both.


	8. The Visitor

The knock at the door was unexpected.

Günter left off reading, frowned, and listened. The knock came again, neither discrete nor particularly urgent. It was not the knock of a shy lover, nor of someone with desperate news and dire circumstances. He shut his book and set it aside.

Light from the corridors flooded in when he opened the door. It shone off Wolfram's hair as he tilted his head and smiled viciously.

"Can I come in?"

Günter considered slamming the door shut in the younger demon's face. Wolfram was never a pleasant companion, and they did not get on together. Nevertheless, Günter stepped gracefully to one side and his unwanted guest strolled in.

"I've spent an interesting evening," Wolfram announced to no one in particular. He wandered over to one of the many bookcases lining the walls. "Have you really read all of these?" he asked, peering at the worn spines of books. He pulled out one and opened it. _"'Upon the Causes of Melancholia'", _he read, "How boring." He sneered and deliberately dropped the heavy volume. It landed with a soft thud. Günter flinched. Wolfram pulled out another volume and dropped that on the floor too.

"Lord Wolfram," Günter said quietly, "Is there a reason why you are here?"

Wolfram grinned broadly. He seized a heavy chunk of worn crystal that had been serving as a bookend and examined it, turning it over and over in his hands. The front of his jacket was open, as was his shirt. There was a bruise on his collarbone in the shape of a set of teeth. Silently, Günter picked up his books, straightened the pages and set them back on the shelves. Wolfram flung himself down into Günter's favourite armchair and stared as if daring Günter to tell him to leave.

"Is there a reason why I shouldn't be?" Wolfram smirked insolently. "You're the best friend to my brothers and my mother. You're practically family. I should really visit more often." He ran his hand through his rumpled hair and battered his eyelashes. "Günter, we should be friends. Let's be friends."

"You're drunk, Lord Wolfram. Please allow me to escort you back to your chambers."

"No! No, let's not. Let's have a little chat instead. We don't talk much at all, do we?"

"No, we don't," Günter allowed, warily.

"So let's talk. Let's chat. Let's talk about you. Have you ever slept with my mother?"

The older demon's face did not change. "Please allow me to escort you back to your chambers," he said again.

"And what is it with you and Gwendal? There's something very odd going on there. When Anissina grabs the both of you and drags you back to her laboratory and locks the door, just what do you do in there together?"

Günter stood. "I think it's time you left."

"And Conrart. A pure friendship? I don't think so. You've targeted most of my family in one way or another. Tell me, did you ever sleep with my father?"

"Allow me some taste."

"Have you ever thought about doing it with me?" Wolfram grinned as he tired of the crystal and tossed it away.

"Certainly not!" Günter spat. For the first time anger slid across his face, and Wolfram snickered.

"Do you know," The younger demon said, his voice dripping with malice, "How much I've always hated you?"

"That's enough!" Wolfram squawked as Günter grabbed a fistful of jacket and heaved. The younger demon flew across the room and landed with a heavy thump. "You've overstayed your welcome. Now leave."

A hysterical whine clawed its way out of Wolfram's throat, became a high pitched laugh. Günter watched with narrowed eyes and Wolfram jumped up, threw his arms about Günter's neck.

"Give me a kiss?" He said, "You'll have the whole family then. Collect the entire set. Complete the series."

"Get off of me!" Wolfram scaled Günter's body like he was climbing a tree. A wet, clumsy kiss was pressed to Günter's mouth and Günter snarled angrily. "Mind your manners, Lord Wolfram!" For the second time that evening, Wolfram hit the carpet. He sniffled, and then broke out into laughter again.

"I win," he whispered.

"What?"

"I win. I win, Günter."

"I don't care what you think you've won. Just get out." He scraped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Now really," Wolfram rolled over onto his back, unhooked his jacket. It fell open, and so did his shirt. From neck to navel he was covered in bruises, scratches, and bite marks. "Is that the way to treat your king's fiancée? It's really going ahead, you know. He told me so. The king told me when he fucked me. The king fucked me."

The king. The Demon King, not Yuri. Wolfram rolled over on his side, curled up into a ball and began to shake. Günter wrung his hands helplessly and watched the drunken, bruised wreck sobbing helplessly on the carpet.

"I win. I win, Günter, I got him. You've lost. He said he loves me. He loves me, not you."

The lump of crystal that Wolfram had thrown turned under his foot. Günter almost fell and bit his lip to stop a curse. Very deliberately he set it back on a shelf and sat down beside Wolfram. He slid his arms under the younger demon's small frame and lifted him onto his lap. Stroking golden curls, he wondered how he was supposed to fix this mess.

"I didn't want the king. I just wanted Yuri," Wolfram whispered. "Yuri's the one I love." He buried his face in Günter's tunic. "He...he...didn't have to hurt me. I would have done it anyway."

Günter closed his eyes and wished that he'd never opened the door.

--

_Note: All of these pieces were written for the kkmchallenge LiveJournal community, Round Seventeen, the Ultimate Challenge. The challenge was to write/draw 28 pieces, all centring on one character (Gunter) and containing a different pairing (Gisela, Celi, Conrart, Saralegui, Gwendal, Julia, , Anissina and Wolfram. I am NOT sorry about the Wolfram one so don't bother bitching about it.) I managed eight, which I think was pretty good, considering that in the meantime (not the nicetime) I moved three hundred kilometres to start a new job with long hours, I didn't have my own computer and access to the 'net was limited. _

_I was the second runner up overall and 'The Visitor' tied for the second runner up. Not a bad result I think, considering some of the competition. And I'm in awe of the people who managed to produce ten or more entries let alone the full twenty eight.  
_


End file.
